I Am Not the Ghost You Want of Me
by hatman-and-robin
Summary: An investigation into a new case resonates powerfully with Sherlock, reminding him of his past, of things he's never shared with anyone, not even John. Mentions of child abuse, death.


**Disclaimer: Not ours. Sherlock belongs to Moffat and Gatiss. **

**A/N: Trigger warnings for child abuse and death. Nothing overtly explicit.**

* * *

It was a Saturday morning.

John sat in the kitchen at the table, his laptop and a bagel slathered with cream cheese sitting before him in a small space he had cleared of Sherlock's empty test tubes and half-finished experiments. He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the bare wood of the surface, covered in little nicks and dings and bleached three shades lighter in some places and burned three shades darker in others. He slowly flipped through replies to entries on his blog.

Each weekend, he checked for tips about new cases and praise on old cases he had posted about. It was always nice to read the good things people had to say about the pair of them and some of the best cases had come from the comments in his forum. He bit into his bagel and scrolled casually. Post after post of praise and astonishment and one, specifically, that caught John's eye. He let up on the down key, ring finger still hovering over it. His eyes slid down the lines of text before he could stop them, even as he wished he wanted to. He set down his bagel and let the details wash over him, his appetite now gone – and not in the normal eyeballs in the microwave way.

It was an abuse case, moreover a homicide. A child's death. Not even a child – a baby, really. Six years old and dead. Cause of death had not yet been proven, but it was suspected that he had been beaten to death. That's apparently what the client wanted he and Sherlock for – to prove whether or not the boy's father had done it. John swore under his breath.

Included was a description of the child, a picture. It sent a chill down his spine. This boy looked so young, so small. His cheeks were slightly pinkish and he was bearing his crooked teeth for the world to see. In this picture, he was beaming; he looked like he had been such a pleasant young boy, and the glint in his eyes would have made him quite popular among the ladies, had he been given the chance to grow into a mischievous young man. But hardest part for him to get past was his hair. It was knotted in a messy, curly tuft on his forehead. For a moment, John felt as if he were looking at a picture of his flatmate twenty years ago. The thought made his head spin.

"What are you looking at?" Sherlock asked, appearing behind him.

John jumped and snapped his laptop shut so hard it practically cracked his screen. "Nothing."

"If you're watching porn again, I've already told you I'm not interested in your viewing habits," Sherlock said coolly, sweeping around the table in his dressing gown on his way to the kitchen. "But it is a bit early in the morning, don't you think?"

"It was _not _porn. Why are you so obsessed with me watching porn?" John said, growing flustered as he spoke to Sherlock's back while the dark haired man rummaged around the refrigerator.

"What _was _it then?" Sherlock said, peeking around the door of the refrigerator.

"It really was not anything."

Sherlock made an unconvinced noise and shut the door. "Right. Well, when you get back to watching whatever you _weren't_ watching, take care not to get too excited at the table. I can't have you contaminating my experiments."

"It was a case I was reading about, okay?" John said exasperatedly, pushing himself from the table and throwing his mostly unfinished bagel away. He wasn't hungry anymore.

"Yes, and…?" Sherlock said, opening John's laptop, interest piqued.

"No, wait – stop!"

Sherlock had already cracked John's password (why did he even bother with them anymore?) and was reading the case. John could see the picture of the boy's face reflected in Sherlock's eyes and it gave him an uneasy feeling he could not quite validate.

"Call Lestrade," he ordered without looking up.

"Sherlock… I think maybe we should leave this one."

"What are you talking about? We can't just let this go. The family is clearly desperate for our help. They posted their plight on a public webpage for goodness' sake."

"I know, but-"

"John, this is serious."

"I'm not saying it isn't."

"Then what is it?"

"It's a child, Sherlock," John said evenly.

"I am aware of that, even more reason we should take it."

"I'm just not sure if-"

John's protests were of no use. Sherlock had his mobile pressed up against his ear and from where he was standing, John could hear the faint, tinny ring of Lestrade's line.

John sighed heavily; he seriously doubted Sherlock knew what he was getting into. He was nearly certain that the man had ever seen a dead child before. John twitched involuntarily as he remembered the first time he had.

He had been overseas at the time, just arrived to Afghanistan. Some local children had gotten caught in crossfire and he – as a medical doctor – had been sent over to look at the bodies, attempt to determine what type of bullets had killed them, so they could know for certain who was responsible for their deaths. He'd never imagined he'd react as strongly as he had. In fact, he couldn't remember now who'd been responsible, his side or the other, but he remembered how he'd responded.

He'd vomited on his boots in front of his entire unit.

Sherlock's voice brought him firmly back to the present.

"Right. Yes. Thank you, Lestrade. We'll be there shortly." He hung up the phone and looked pointedly at John. "He says they've already been to the scene. Anderson's probably mucked everything up, but he wants us to drop by Bart's to take a look at the evidence they already have, including the body."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John swore softly. "It's not _evidence,_ it's a kid. A child. A dead child."

"Yes. And you repeating that fact to me, a fact of which I am well aware, will not help us find his killer any faster," Sherlock snapped. He stood up and crossed the kitchen, heading for his bedroom. "We'll be leaving in ten."

John sighed and scrubbed a hand over his mouth. There was no stopping Sherlock once he had made his mind up. He only hoped that he was prepared for what they were about to face.

* * *

Sherlock had been silent the entire cab ride to St. Barts and now that they were inside the building, on an elevator heading to the morgue, he still wasn't speaking. John couldn't even begin to guess what was going on inside the man's head. He was a mystery at the best of times and downright impossible to read the rest. With his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and his collar turned up, he definitely looked every bit an enigma.

The elevator shuddered to a stop and as the doors opened, John saw that Lestrade was waiting for them.

"If you hadn't rung me this morning, I would have been calling you within ten minutes," the DI said, getting to his feet to shake John's hand in greeting. "We need all the help we can get. Thanks for coming."

"Desperate as always?" Sherlock quipped, speaking for the first time since they'd left Baker Street.

"I just want your opinion," Lestrade said, beginning to lead them down a hallway. "Case seems pretty open and shut, shame. But I need to be sure we've gotten everything before we start making charges."

"A father killing his son – those are serious allegations," John stepped in.

"Which is why I need to be sure we're getting it right."

"Why is _he _here?" a familiar, yet unwelcome, voice greeted them as they rounded a corner, coming to the end of the hallway.

"Always a pleasure, Anderson," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man.

Anderson frowned. "Lestrade…?"

"He's here because I asked him to be, same as always," Lestrade said pointedly. "You've done your part, now let him do his."

"I don't see why I have to be here, then," Anderson grumbled. "Called in on a Saturday after a late night…"

"Because I need you here in case Sherlock finds something contrary to your report," Lestrade explained tersely. "You two will have to talk it out like civilized people so we can figure out what's going on here, all right? This is about a murder, remember. A child's homicide. I expect you treat this case and all investigating parties with all due respect. Got it?"

At that moment, the door swung open, breaking the tension in the room. "Sherlock. Detective Inspector. Everyone…" Molly flashed them a nervous smile. "I didn't know there was going to be an audience."

"We're not staying for the whole autopsy, Molly," Lestrade explained. "I just wanted Sherlock to have a chance to look at the body before you begin."

"Just want to make sure nothing's been missed," Sherlock stated, unable to resist the chance to jab at Anderson. John shook his head.

"I haven't seen the body yet," Molly explained, flipping through the papers on her clipboard. "So it'll be good for me to take a look too."

"It's not a pretty sight," Lestrade warned, glancing around at the lot of them. "Be prepared."

"I don't know what you're warning _him_ for," Anderson muttered under his breath. "It's not like he has feelings about anything anyway."

While everyone else chose to ignore him, John glared at the man, somehow managing to hold his tongue.

"Right, then," Molly spoke up, heading for a set of double doors. "If you'll just come with me, they've laid the body out for me just here."

John fell into step beside Sherlock as they entered the sterile white autopsy room. They'd been in this room dozens of times before, looking at evidence and bodies and so forth, but this time was different. Something just felt _wrong._ The lights were too bright, the antiseptic smell too overpowering, the sight of the sheet-covered body lying on the examination table – it was all wrong.

John had to take a breath and collect himself as Molly crossed the room, pulling on a pair of gloves and standing by the examination table, preparing to pull the sheet down to reveal the body. It was small. Too small. Much, much too small to be in a place such as this. He wasn't sure he wanted to look, wasn't sure he wanted to know. God, it felt like Afghanistan all over again, with the hot smell of metallic blood hanging in the air. With his peers and superiors expecting him to look on and give his professional opinion on what had happened. He wasn't sure he could do this, but he knew there wasn't a choice. He had to do this. For Lestrade. For Sherlock. For the child, this poor little child who deserved justice. He could do it. He could.

John spared a glance at Sherlock, wondering how his friend was holding up.

He heard rather than saw the sheet being removed from the small body, but he saw the effects of the sight in Sherlock's eyes. He watched his friend's features tighten slightly as he listened to Molly prattle off things she was noticing about the small body. John chanced a look at the table and felt his stomach clench. It was just as bad as he remembered it being; worse, even because this was real and it was happening now. He clenched his teeth and his fists and looked back to Sherlock.

John could see it starting. The telltale sign was in Sherlock's hand that hung frozen in midair in front of him, poised as though he were about to touch his face, perhaps to cover his mouth. It shaking slightly – so slightly John was sure no one else would have noticed it. But John wasn't just anyone. When it came to Sherlock, John noticed things about him the way that Sherlock saw and observed the little things about everything and everyone else. His mannerisms were so strange and erratic already, it had become important for John to be able to notice when something was wrong. And right now, something was very wrong.

"I'm not sure, what do you think?"

John tuned in to Molly's voice. She was crouching over the body and looking up through her eyelashes at the pair of them. A piece of her hair whispered through the silence as it fell from her ponytail.

"Sherlock?" her voice popped the last syllable.

Sherlock did not make any movement to answer her question, just continued to stare at the tiny dark haired body on the table with glassy eyes, his hand extended, trembling – trembling. John took a few strides closer to him, not wanting to startle the man when he was so obviously distraught. Molly looked from Sherlock to John, a question in her eyes.

"Hey," John said softly, almost in Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock?"

His reply was a half-choked gasp. He turned his head a fraction of an inch and looked at John, wild terror in his eyes. John nodded infinitesimally; he knew what he had to do. Instinctually, he reached out and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder, steering him out of the cramped room and into the hallway. He could feel the man's body pitching underneath his fingers and knew they needed to get outside before Sherlock couldn't make himself walk anymore. John ushered him past Anderson's disproving stare, shooting a menacing glare his way, warning him to keep his mouth shut.

Moving faster, John headed towards the staircase leading to the exit; he did not think the elevator would be good for anyone at this moment. They traveled one flight down before Sherlock could no longer rely on his feet. John helped him sit down on the bottom step. The lanky man flopped down with less grace than John had seen him do anything before. Sherlock looked him in the eyes. He looked so frightened, so small. He was biting his bottom lip and blinking, blinking, blinking. His eyes were wet and wide, and John could only imagine what was doing on in that mind of his that had caused him to react so violently.

He kept a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder, a lucid reminder of his presence even inside all of his inner turmoil. Suddenly, Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and wrapped his long arms around his shaking torso. John moved his hand to Sherlock's back and rubbed there, keeping a steady slow rhythm.

"Breathe, Sherlock."

Sherlock's responding whimper was drowned out by the echoing sound of footsteps on the stairs above them. John inwardly groaned, but Sherlock seemed to be attempting to compose himself. Surely just because of the new company, John decided.

He turned and saw the shadows of Lestrade and Anderson above them. When they came into view, Lestrade looked about as distraught as Sherlock felt. Anderson, however, looked slightly confused and overall annoyed, as per usual.

"Everything all right?" Lestrade asked, looking down on the pair of men like a concerned father might regard his son after he'd fallen off his bike for the first time.

"Er… It will be…" John answered.

"I'm fine," Sherlock supplied quietly, in a voice that sounded anything but.

"John, can I do anything?"

"Leaving, actually, would be a good thing."

John felt Sherlock begin to straighten up beneath his hand. That was a good sign. Lestrade turned to go, but Anderson just scoffed loudly, his voice echoing throughout the staircase. "I'm surprised someone like _you _couldn't handle the sight of some dead kid. Freak."

Sherlock crumpled. John turned on the two of them, flames in his eyes.

"Out. Right now. Out!"

Anderson shrank from the authority in John's voice, while trying to coolly disinterested. Lestrade shot John a look of apology before taking a fistful of Anderson's jacket sleeve and dragging him up the stairs. As they retreated, John could hear Lestrade reprimanding Anderson - something about docking his pay – to which Anderson rebutted that he was not even on the clock right now. John wished (not for the first time) that Lestrade would hire new help – someone less of a piss-off.

The threat of onlookers removed, John reverted his attention back to his best friend, who now had silent tears stemming from the corners of his eyes. John hummed softly and continued to rub Sherlock's back. He could feel the painful spasms coming off of him in his attempts to breathe normally. Fearing hyperventilation, John moved his hands to Sherlock's tense shoulders and pushed his head between his knees, keeping his hand planted on Sherlock's shoulder. The rush of blood to his head would keep Sherlock from passing out, which was a very real possibility right now.

John didn't envy his flatmate as he grappled with this emotional onslaught – he knew these feelings and emotions all too well. The only consolation he felt was that he was here, and Sherlock did not have to face this terror by himself. He would not wish dealing with something like this alone on anyone. He still felt relatively hopeless, though. He wanted nothing more than to make the world stop spinning sickeningly around Sherlock.

"Everyone is gone," he whispered. "It's only me now, and it's all fine. Just take a breath, take your time. Take as long as you need."

He kept supplying words of encouragement, offering support without being overbearing. After a moment, Sherlock unwrapped one of his arms from himself and reached out blindly for John. Head still between his knees, he grasped the bottom hem of his jumper and clung to it for dear life, breath coming in heaves.

After ten or so minutes, his grip slackened and his breath seemed to even out. John could tell Sherlock's heart rate was much lower than it had been moments ago. He closed his eyes, thanking a higher power and praying that it was indeed over. It was always worse when the panic came back for a second attack. Sherlock slowly lifted his head, pressing the hand that was previously clutching John to his temple as he tried to regain equilibrium.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked timidly.

"I need a cigarette or I am going to vomit." Sherlock replied bluntly.

"A-all right," John stood, slightly putting distance between them just in case Sherlock actually _did_become ill. He was certainly pale enough. He immediately started patting down his pockets, knowing he was not going to find any cigarettes in them. "Sherlock, I… I don't have a cigarette."

"Left breast pocket," Sherlock responded automatically.

"What?" John blinked at him in confusion.

"Inside pocket. I put a cigarette there the other day."

"You put a cigarette in my jacket?" John asked, still disbelieving what he was hearing. "Why?"

"In case of emergencies. It was good of me to plan ahead. Now if you don't mind…" Sherlock held out his hand, palm up, waiting.

John stuck his hand in the aforementioned pocket and, just as Sherlock had said, found a cigarette there. Two, in fact. He wondered how on earth he hadn't noticed them, but it wasn't important now. Sherlock was. He placed the cigarette in his friend's hand and watched as Sherlock deftly maneuvered it between two long fingers, his other hand slipping into his own pocket and retrieving a lighter. The snick of the ignition echoed through the stairwell as Sherlock lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply before blowing out a small puff of smoke. Even with that first drag, John could see Sherlock visibly relaxing. He couldn't abide by Sherlock's smoking most days, but he had come to understand that it was necessary. Sometimes nothing else could calm him down as effectively as a little nicotine. If that was the worst of it, John was willing to compromise and grant him the small allowance.

When Sherlock had burned through half of his cigarette, John returned to sit beside him on the stairs.

"You probably shouldn't be smoking in a hospital," he offered, hoping to lighten the mood.

"76% of the people here are dead or dying," Sherlock quipped. "There are no oxygen tanks in this hallway. No vents into patient rooms. One cigarette won't harm anyone."

"Right," John muttered, resting his forearms on his knees, clasping his hands together. "Feeling better then?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, just continued to stare at the wall ahead of him, routinely taking deep drags of his cigarette and exhaling.

John stared at his feet. He didn't know how long it would take Sherlock to come around, but he knew that there was no other way out of this situation. He couldn't force Sherlock to do anything and, even if he could, it wouldn't do to make him move on before he was ready. These things took time to process and seeing a dead child for the first time... It was a lot to process.

"I wasn't expecting that."

John's head snapped up. "Sorry?"

"The child... The boy. I wasn't expecting it to be like that."

"It's never what you think it's going to be," John said quietly, once again looking at his shoes, the square military knots if his laces.

Sherlock took another long drag of his cigarette, exhaling shakily. "I don't normally get... Upset."

"You can't know how you're going to react to something like that until it happens."

"Everyone must think me a fool..." He raised the stub of a cigarette to his lips, his hand trembling still, slightly.

"Listen," John said, his voice serious. "No one thinks that. Not Molly. Not Lestrade. They were concerned for you. And Anderson is a dick, so his opinion doesn't count."

A strangled sort of snicker escaped Sherlock's throat. John glanced over and saw a small smirk on the other man's face. That was a good sign, great sign.

"He is though, isn't he?" Sherlock commented, sounding more like himself. "A world-class wanker."

Sherlock chuckled again and John laughed a little too, despite himself. It was wholly inappropriate. But then again, that was them - giggling at crime scenes, chuckling after running away from a would-be-madman.

"He was right, though, John," Sherlock said seriously. "I am a bit of a freak," he said, over-enunciating the word.

"Sherlock, no," John started, shaking his head, but his flatmate cut him off.

"It's true though. I've always been odd. Always been that outcast, that little boy no one liked, that child whose teachers couldn't understand him, the son whose parents despised him."

John fell silent, listening. Sherlock very rarely, if ever, opened up. Something important was happening here, and John felt a panicky sort of weight settle in his stomach.

Sherlock took one final inhale of his cigarette and dropped it on the concrete floor, watching the glowing red embers for a moment longer than necessary before crushing them with the toe of his shoe.

"Well then," he said, rising suddenly and turning so he towered in front of John. "Shall we head back upstairs?"

John just blinked at him. "Wait... What?"

"They're waiting for us upstairs. Shouldn't we go?"

John gaped at him, astounded and confused by his ability to just compartmentalize everything that had happened in the past 15 minutes and move on. "A-are you sure, Sherlock? I mean... We don't have to stay if..."

"I want to stay," he said resolutely. "There is a case to be solved, a case we are under contract to solve." He squared his shoulders and sidestepped John, beginning to make his way back up the stairs. "Come, John. We've wasted enough time already."

John stared at his retreating form, the billowing folds of his long coat as he took the steps two at a time. Shaking his head, he pulled himself to his feet and trailed along behind Sherlock, hurrying to catch up.

Breathing slightly heavier than he should have been, he met Sherlock at the top of the staircase. Sherlock looked at John before noisily pushing open the door that led back into the hallway of the morgue. Lestrade and Anderson were standing in the hallway. Lestrade was contemplating a white Styrofoam cup of less than mediocre coffee. He wasn't drinking it, but swishing the contents around periodically. Anderson was leaning up against the wall, watching him, an even more annoyed than usual expression darkening his pinched-up features.

Both heads snapped in their direction as the door to the stairwell snapped shut behind them. Lestrade immediately walked about four steps toward them before stopping and waiting for the pair to come the rest of the way toward him. John was reminded of anxious families sitting the waiting room a few floors up from the morgue who rose meet him when he came out to deliver unfortunate news. John shook the feeling off quickly, casting a glance behind him to make sure Sherlock was in tow.

"All right then?" Lestrade asked once they were close enough.

Sherlock nodded. "May I look at the body again?"

"Are you sure you can handle that?" Anderson sneered spitefully.

Sherlock scoffed and stalked past Anderson as Lestrade held the door open for him and John. Anderson scowled as Sherlock walked by. He caught the door as it shut and opened it back up aggressively. "You smell like cigarette smoke. Were you smoking in the _hospital? _"

John glared at the man while Sherlock grinned slightly.

"People are _dying _in here! You let him smoke in here?" Anderson turned to John. "You work here! You should know better."

"That will be enough, Anderson," Lestrade said, a warning tone in his voice.

"Pair of freaks."

"Anderson, out!" Lestrade ordered, opening the door for him and shooing him out, closing it more forcefully than necessary behind him. "I apologize."

Sherlock waved him off and waited for Molly to once again remove the sheet. She looked to Lestrade for permission, and he nodded curtly. As the sheet was removed, Sherlock sucked in a breath through his mouth, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. John kept an eye on Sherlock as he pricked and prodded the small body. He noticed the small twitches in his gloved hands, the hitches in his breath, but the younger man seemed much better than he had before. John remained at his side, ready to intervene if needed.

"It was indeed the father," Sherlock announced after a few short moments. "There is a mark on the side of his neck that is an exact match to the rings worn on the father's left hand. Although the boy was beaten, obviously, cause of death was strangulation, as seen in the broken hyoid bone and the petechiae in his eyes. There is some bruising around the neck, somewhat difficult to differentiate from the other hematomas, but it is there. Pattern of bruising suggests large hands, and that he attacked from the front. This boy would have been looking right at his killer as he died."

"Jesus…" John swore under his breath.

"Size of the hands indicates that our killer is male – older, taller, stronger. The intimate style of the killing in conjunction with the mark on the right side of the neck more than implicates the father. Arrest him at once."

Lestrade nodded and made note of Sherlock's deductions. He thanked the men as they walked out, sharing a glance with John that offered support, should they need it_._

* * *

On the cab ride home, Sherlock was quieter than normal. John could tell that Sherlock was trying very hard to remain in control of his breathing. They both knew that a cab was not the best environment for a panic attack – small space, no privacy, and cabbies were not the most compassionate people in the world. He only hoped that once they got back to Baker Street and Sherlock could get into his threadbare bathrobe with a cup of warm peppermint tea in his hand everything would be fine.

Sherlock began to drum his lithe fingers against his knee in a rhythm that John recognized as the Morse code alphabet. John reached out and slid his finger over the top of Sherlock's hand. He tapped against the soft skin: two short taps, a pause, a long tap, a short one, followed by a long one and another pause before a long touch, two short ones, a long and a short. _OK? _

Sherlock turned his head to look John in the eye, and nodded once. John nodded back, but let his fingers linger on Sherlock's hand. Neither man complained about the touch.

Finally, the cab reached the familiar sidewalk of Baker Street. John handed a few bills to the cabbie and followed Sherlock out of the car. Sherlock unlocked the door as John watched, noting how his hands still shook even with the key between his fingers.

The two entered their flat, and Sherlock announced that he was going to shower. John could not argue with him – hot water did wonders to calm nerves. In the meantime, John made tea for the both of them, adding an extra spoonful of honey to Sherlock's. The tea was brewed to perfection just as Sherlock exited the bathroom, looking significantly more calm and comfortable in his bathrobe, just as John had predicted.

He handed Sherlock the tea along with half of a peanut butter sandwich. "This was on the table. From Mrs. Hudson. She's having a girl's night out tonight, but didn't know when we were going to be back so she made us a snack. She's left a note. I'll have to thank her tomorrow."

Sherlock shook his head and held his hands out for the things John was handing him.

"John?" he asked.

"Sherlock?" he countered, sitting down with his own cup of tea and the television remote.

"Well, today. It was a bit not good when I… I mean to say… When you… ah…"

"Don't mention it, Sherlock," John interrupted, saving him from having to spell it out. "I know how hard it is to see a dead child the first time. I told you that."

"Well, yes. But…"

"Need I remind you that you are human, Sherlock? You are allowed to have emotional reactions to things from time to time."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. John turned on the television to alleviate the silence that had fallen around them.

"Must you put me through the things that you watch again?"

"It's just crap telly, Sherlock," John said, stifling a yawn. He had not even realized he was tired.

"Is that what you call what you were watching earlier as well?"

"It's not porn, Sherlock. It still is _not _porn."

"Whatever you say," Sherlock took a sip of his tea, averting his attention to the television. John followed suit and sipped his as well. He felt his eyelids drooping. It had been an exhausting day. He could only imagine how Sherlock felt. He swallowed the last bite of sandwich Mrs. Hudson had left him and took another sip of tea, feeling himself falling asleep curled around the warm mug.

* * *

John did not awake as peacefully as he fell asleep. Rather, he awoke to the sounds of Sherlock's screams coming from his bedroom.

In a flash, John was on his feet, his teacup clattering to the carpet as he raced through the flat, following Sherlock's tortured cries. He burst through his roommate's closed door without bothering to knock, not even thinking twice. His eyes fell on Sherlock, who twisted and thrashed in his sleep, unearthly yells escaping his mouth. John had never heard anything like it.

Ignoring every warning he'd ever heard about the consequences of waking someone in the throes of a nightmare, John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, shaking him awake and calling his name.

Sherlock awoke with a loud gasp, his eyes flying open. It took him a moment to fully come back to consciousness and John saw the fear in his eyes as he tried to work out exactly where he was.

"It's all right, Sherlock," John said comfortingly, squeezing his shoulder to ground him in the here and now. "You're safe. We're here at home and you're all right. I'm here. You're all right."

"John…" Sherlock whispered, his throat hoarse from screaming. Without warning, he bolted upright and grabbed a fistful of John's jumper. John waited, not knowing what to expect, but Sherlock didn't say anything more; rather, he gently rubbed the woolen material between his thumb and forefinger, a self-soothing gesture to ground him in the here and now. He breathed deeply through his nose, slowly blowing it out through his mouth in an effort to calm his racing heartbeat.

"You were screaming," John offered as Sherlock began to relax. "I heard you."

Sherlock nodded but remained silent. John knew better than to press, so he simply sat there, his thumb rubbing small circles on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's this case, John," Sherlock said softly, his voice barely a whisper.

"What's that?" John asked, ducking his head to see Sherlock's eyes, but the man wouldn't lift his eyes, deliberately keeping his head down.

"The case… I can't dissociate from it. I can't… can't stop seeing his face…"

"It was only a nightmare…" John tried again, but Sherlock shook his head, cutting him off. From the tension in his body, John knew what he was about to say was something monumental, something that had begun this afternoon at morgue and continued in the stairwell and even tonight manifested itself in Sherlock's dreams.

"When I was nine, I got a black eye," he said, apropos of nothing. "Told my mother I hit it on the corner of my desk at school."

John frowned, not following. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, I…"

"Six months later, I got another," Sherlock plowed on, ignoring John's interjection, "this time from a stray cricket ball. The winter I turned ten, I sustained several fractured ribs. Claimed I slipped on an icy sidewalk, landing exceptionally hard on my side. At twelve, I broke my wrist. Fell down the stairs. I received six stitches, just above my hairline, when I was fourteen."

John listened, a sickening feeling taking root in his stomach. He didn't like the sound of this. A history of incidents such as this set his medical mind on a path he didn't want to travel.

"I was often bruised as a child, so often that my mother had me tested for several blood disorders – anemia, hemophilia, leukemia… The tests always came back negative." Sherlock trailed off, taking a few deep breaths, his fingers tightening their hold on John's jumper.

John felt ill. He may not have been the master of deduction that Sherlock was, but he could certainly read the clues that were being laid out for him. _No… no. That can't be why. Please, no…_

"Seeing this boy…" Sherlock managed, swallowing reflexively against a tightness that John could hear building in his voice. "He could have been me."

John's stomach seized. He shook his head mechanically, refusing to believe what Sherlock was trying to tell him. "No, Sherlock…"

"Let me say this, John!" Sherlock snapped suddenly, startling John into silence. His blood ran cold at the mix of anger and pain in Sherlock's steely blue eyes. He'd only once seen that look in his eyes before… after he'd seen the hound out on the moors… that glassy, wide stare so utterly, utterly full of fear in its most primal state.

"Tell me," John said, his hand coming to cover Sherlock's, where it was still gripping his jumper.

"My father," Sherlock started, stopping to calm himself as his breaths grew erratic. "M-my father beat me. From when I was a child up until I went to university. I never told – not my mother, not Mycroft. He told me it was my fault, told me I was a _freak_… said he would hit me until I started behaving like a _normal _child, said I could change, said that I was doing it on purpose. He made me think I was insignificant, that I deserved it. It never got better, only got worse. Nothing I did could ever please him and the more he drank, the worse he became. Even as I got older, he got angrier – angry I couldn't 'outgrow' it, angry I wasn't like Mycroft, angry that I was such a worthless son.

"He was a _monster, _John, just like the man who killed his son. In comparision, I was luck… I was lucky," he choked on the word. "But if I hadn't been…"

John didn't know what to say. So many things pertaining to the man that was once again trembling before him finally clicked and made sense now. Still, that did not make any part of this situation better. This information was too much for John to process…

It all happened so fast, like puzzle pieces falling into place. The way Sherlock avoided physical contact with almost anyone, the way he did not like to be close emotionally with anyone – it all made sense. He had grown up being told he was inadequate and he had worked so hard as not to give anyone the opportunity to remind him of that. The way he was so attached to the few elders in his life – Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade – he was just looking for someone he could look up to, someone who would validate him. The biting comments from Anderson suddenly stung more. When he or Donovan had uttered the word 'freak,' it must have cut Sherlock deeper and deeper each time. John had no idea how he could weather these insults so coolly after his experiences. A small voice inside him told him Sherlock was probably used to it. It made him sick. For a moment, John half considered using the second cigarette Sherlock had stowed in his coat pocket to abate his own sudden nausea.

"…that child would have been me," Sherlock mumbled into John's rumpled jumper, the same one he was wearing earlier. He made a mental note of how much security his sweaters seemed to offer him and shifted himself a bit as Sherlock leaned further into him. If what Sherlock needed right now was the assurance of physical contact, then that was what John was going to give him.

John could feel Sherlock scrunch his face up against the sensitive skin in the hollow of his neck, the pain in the words tangible. He hoped his pulse was not racing too obviously with all the newly formed rage and sorrow he was feeling. He could almost imagine a smaller version of Sherlock, even more inquisitive and intuitive – children of that age always are. He wondered what sort of child Sherlock had been. Had he been one to smile brightly and to make friends? Or had he always been so withdrawn and quiet? He was suddenly bombarded with the idea that Sherlock's behavior had been acquired rather than instinctual, that he had learned from an early age how to stay quiet and read people for fear of speaking out of turn. Knowing he would never be certain, John tried to stop the notions that crept into his head.

He stared straight forward in the dark, but even darker scenes playing in front of his eyes. John saw a towering faceless man pushing Sherlock down a large staircase, kicking him around, slapping him in the face. He heard the echoes of Sherlock's screams earlier, coming from a much younger body.

"Oh, Sherlock…" John said, gently moving his hand across Sherlock's exposed back.

"It-it was awful, John. An utter nightmare. I felt so trapped, worthless," Sherlock curled in on himself, even while holding on to his flatmate.

John was sure his chest would rupture from the ache that swelled there. "You weren't worthless. Not then, not now. If anyone was, it was the man who hurt you so much."

"No, no. Maybe if I had been better, maybe I could have made him proud. Less angry with me. Mum wouldn't have left. He wouldn't have drank so much if it wasn't for me. He never hit Mycroft – not once. It was me. Always me…" Sherlock's words came out in a terrified string, each thought connected to the next, like spider spinning a web with its fine silk. Once it started, there was no stopping it. "I could have been better. I should have tried harder. Read less, talked more. Not done so well in school. He wouldn't have thought I was trying to upstage Mycroft. I could have been less of a freak."

John felt hollow inside listening to Sherlock's words, so clearly laced with self-hate that he had let fester and grow into a monster that he had kept locked up in the dungeon of his Mind Palace for so long. John patted Sherlock's back and gently moved him so he was sitting up. He hooked his index finger under the shaken man's chin and looked into his eyes. He saw the frightened, broken child sitting behind his irises.

"Listen to me, Sherlock," he said in a voice that was much stronger than he was expecting it to be. "None, none, of this is your fault. Absolutely no part. You did nothing to warrant or deserve anything that he did to you."

Sherlock averted his eyes and shook his head, swallowing thickly. John reached his fingers to touch the man's cheek timidly. He was not sure when the physical contact was going to catch up to Sherlock and it would all be too much, even if his hands were still knotted in John's jumper.

"What about the boy today?" John tried again. "Was that his fault what happened to him?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock spat. "How could you even suggest such a – "

Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized the point John was attempting to make. He gaped a moment, his lower lip trembling slightly as John continued.

"I know no one has ever told you that before. But what happened to you was not your fault either. You are not responsible for your father's actions. It was him, Sherlock. Not you. Not your fault."

Suddenly, Sherlock pitched himself forward into John's arms, clinging to him. John felt his shoulder become wet before Sherlock let out a series of heaving sobs. John felt almost honored to be seeing this vulnerable, childlike side of Sherlock. He knew this was not something that the detective would share with just anyone, and he certainly would never let anyone see him cry like this – with deep, wracking sobs that neared hyperventilation.

John held tightly to him as he let his emotion flow out of him, keeping his flatmate and best friend close. He knew that this was as close as Sherlock had probably been to anyone in years, if not ever. He was finally letting out all of the guilt and shame and frustration of the better part of the last eighteen years. He finally had someone who valued his existence enough to trust with this horrifying secret, someone who would be there whenever he needed something. John knew all these things, even if Sherlock wouldn't or couldn't say it aloud. He didn't need the words and he didn't think Sherlock did either.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered after a time, in a voice cracked from all the stress it had been put under in the past twenty four hours.

"There's no need to-"

"Thank you for telling me that. Thank you for seeing me for something more than a freak. Thank you for caring."

This was the most sentiment John had ever heard come from Sherlock's mouth. He was almost positive that it was the most that had ever left it in all of his life. John was aghast. Perhaps Sherlock did need the words after all, both to say and to be said.

John nodded in affirmation. "I do care."

"I know," Sherlock said softly. "I know."


End file.
